Such Horrible Things
by EllieHaggers
Summary: It began with a mirror, a lie and a very scared nation. It ended with a mirror, a lie and a not so scared nation. Maybe Italia isn't all that useless... /A Hetalia parody, inspired by the incorrect judgement that 2P's are evil and murderous. Character death and annoying Americans may be prominent/
1. Sit Back Now, Let Me Tell You A Tale

**This came to me in a dream...**

**I'm kidding, sorry.**

**The whole idea for this was born when I was criticized for making 2P England Northern, rather that psychotic and murderous. **

**I mean, we don't even call them cupcakes here, they're fairy cakes.**

**Anyway, I do not apologise if there are many Hetalia clichés in this story.**

**They're purposeful.**

**The bad writing style and tense changes are not.**

**Enjoy~**

* * *

Italia sighed, pushing the sunglasses back up to the bridge of his nose. It was a beautiful day, the sun beating down upon his part of the country. One of his apparently signature 'Ve~'s' could be heard as he relaxed on the lounger, enjoying the comfort. It was a change from the usual noise of Deutschland shouting at him to run faster as he sprinted round a track, beads of sweat joining the tears streaking his face. That was a usual Saturday for the pair, unless they were joined by Nihon, who would usually refrain from part-taking in the activity and take them for sushi, or something similarly stereotypical. The Italian's eyes slid closed, a satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, forming peaceful expression that was quickly replaced with utter surprise as there was a large shout right in his ear.

" Italien! Wach auf!" Was the almost bellow from beside him.

The brunette screeched, jumping from his deck-chair without a second to waste.

"B-But Germania! It's my day off!" He complained, dreading the though of having to run around against his will in this heat.

"No buts." The German replied, frowning at the other.

Saturday was one of the few days he and Italia were able to spend together in this day and age, a day where they'd train, then later reminisce old times over dinner and a drink. Deutschland did enjoy these days, though he had a strong suspicion the Italian had a rather contrasting feeling until the food came into it. The older man began to wail melodramatically, waving his hands around in a vicious attempt to somehow dissuade the blonde from forcing any of the pursuits the German may have planned. After a few silent seconds of musing, the taller man placed a hand on his panicking friends shoulder, halting his frantic actions.

"I was planning on taking you to a restaurant." He came up with quickly, racking his brains for decent places to eat.

The Italians face lit up almost instantaneously, the earlier images of sweat and heavy breathing slipping from his mind, quickly replaced with visions of Deutschland's twist on Italian cuisine. When the pair did go out to dine together, they normally went to a particularly high-quality place, usually Sale e Tabacchi or Ditirambo, where Italia had complete control over what they ate. Clapping his hands together happily, he smiled brightly, ranting in an interpretable string of Italian.

Shaking his head at the predictable happiness of the other, the German almost smiled himself. It was nice to see the other so pleased, even if it did mean the hassle of throwing away any plans he had and replacing them with on-the-spot decisions. Usually, he found it next to impossible to drop his strict, no-nonsense demeanour, but today was different, even if he was unaware of this.

Today was the last day he would see Italia.


	2. Where Justice Does Not Prevail

**More of a filler chapter than anything.**

**A little pointless, but hopefully enjoyable.**

**Urgh, I casually added France's accent because some people do that right?**

**I don't.**

**Whatever.**

* * *

The blond leaned back in his chair, the mid-day sun beating thought the café window. In his hands, he clasped a steaming cup of milk tea, eyeing the pain-au-chocolat on the small plate in front of him as if it might attack at any moment. Taking a sip of his hot beverage, he sighed, trying to remember why he was sat here, alone in the small establishment near the coast of France. In his opinion, Bénodet was beautiful, not that he'd ever let a certain Frenchman catch him expressing that. There was plenty to do, the sea so close he could almost hear it from his seat, the streets so beautiful, the blond was struggling whether he should give up on this lonesome relaxation and walk through them as he waited for the meeting to begin.

There were many things he loved about this country, yet he'd rather choke to death on a mix on his own bile and sweat that admit a word of it out loud.

The ring of the door being pushed open dragged him from his thoughts. He glanced at the customer. No one he knew. Shaking his head, he focused his attention back to his order, placing the now empty mug on the provided coaster. That was when he noticed the pain-au-chocolat again. It was sat there, staring him in the face. A second passed. Another. All the time, his attention focused on the pastry he'd so carelessly ordered. That damn, French, pastry.

"God damn it." He muttered under his breath, giving in to the inanimate food item.

Before he could have any second thoughts or worries, he ripped off a piece of the pain-au-chocolat, shoving it in his mouth and chewing it furiously, hoping not to be seen by anyone he knew. Despite his speed, there was a soft voice in his ear that made him fill with fear and regret.

"A pain-au-chocolat, Angleterre?"

The Brit spluttered, almost throwing the second piece he held in his hand across the room. Laughing, the newcomer placed a hand gently on the others shoulder, sliding into the seat next to him. Pushing the hand off and straightening his tie, the first blond quickly prepared an insult.

"Well done, Frog, it's a croissant. At least we can no longer blame the way you look on your eyesight."

Pleased, he looked towards France with a smirk on his face, only for it to be wiped off when he saw the frog was too busy winking at passers-by to hear. Giving the other a shove, the Englishman frowned, yelling slightly.

"France, could you please refrain from flirting with random strangers. It's unnerving."

For a second time, France laughed, leaning on the slightly smaller man.

"Oh, Angleterre. You're just jealous of my charm."

"Jealous? Jealous that you can wink at people and receive a scream of terror in response? Of course I am." He retorted, sarcastically.

"Terror? Non, non, non. The only thing that brings screams around 'ere is your food."

"Your face scares more people than my food, you twat."

"Ohonhon, you bet."

"I don't bet, I know."

"With only a look of your food, children cry."

"With only the mention of your face, whole villages run screaming."

"Non, mon lapin. People only need to 'ear England and food in the same sentence and they're long gone."

"People only need to hear _France _and they're packing their bags."

"People only need to 'ear England and they're on their way to France."

England paused. Had France just suggested that his country was better than England? Better than England? _France? _That was a low blow, even for the Frenchie.

"Well, people who haven't been to France have missed out on sitting by the beach, in a decent amount of sun, then being put off by hairy women who need to shave their armpits and the smell of dog shit."

And with that, France fell silent.


	3. About an Ill-Fated Life, So Very Full---

**2 chapters in one day.**

**Aren't you proud of me?**

**Full title wouldn't fiiit.**

**"About an Ill-Fated Life, So Very Full of Strife"**

* * *

The American yawned, pacing back and forth past the big wooden doors impatiently. He was early, for the first, and last, time. How on earth did the old man survive in the seemingly endless minutes before a meeting? He must be a God underneath that dull and boring exterior.

Or maybe being dull and boring helped in times like this.

There was a niggling feeling at the back of his mind, telling him to get out if there and actually _do _something, but all he wanted was to be here earlier than England, and rub it right in his limey face. So immersed in his childishly hilarious plot, he failed to notice the faint presence of his Canadian brother beside him.

"Eh, hello?" Mumbled the other North American, almost certain of the fact he would be ignored.

As predicted, America continued to pace, unfazed by the second being in the hallway. Muttering under his breath about how 'awesome' the look on the Britons face would be, he walked right into his brother, who was just about ready to storm out himself.

"Aaa-oh. Yo, Canadia!" The first blonde smiled brightly, completely brushing over the fact he's just _ignored _the overly polite Canadian.

"Hello America." He smiled in return, not bothering to correct his brother.

"What are you doing here so early? The meeting doesn't start for another, like, hour."

Canada nodded, acknowledging the question but responding with one of his own.

"I was about to ask you the same thing. Is there any reason you're ea-"

Hyped up at the chance to explain his plan, America smiled once more, almost jumping up and down out of excitement.

"Oh my God, Canada, I had the best idea ever- So I was thinking…"

The Canadian sighed, blocking the others rant as he did so. He knew full well how his brother could drone on for _hours_ about the same thing, but somehow support the set level of enthusiasm and energy throughout.

Just as America's speech had gotten into full swing, there was a loud, melodramatic wail, followed by the slamming of the front door and an angry shout.

"For God's sake, Frog, you're over-reacting!"

"But Angleterre- My country does not smell of 'orrible body odour."

"That's only because you're used to it! London smells like a perfume shop compared to Paris."

The two newcomers stormed up the hallway, flinging insults at each other and adding to the noise of the Americans already loud plot.

"_Oh, Maple…_" Thought Canada, trying to make his pleas for peace heard through the thick mixture of accents and raised voices.

That was when he saw Ukraïna and Bielaruś .

Oh.

Quickly, he ducked past the male couple, who were too caught up in their petty fighting to notice him what so ever, making his way to the obviously distraught Ukrainian.

"Hello?" He whispered lightly, tugging her away from her younger sister, who looked about ready to beat someone to pulp.

"V-Vitayu..." She stuttered, wiping an almost formed tear from the corner of her eye.

Just as the Canadian was about to ask if she needed anything, there was an earsplitting yell from the Belarussian, that caused all to fall silent.

"_If you fuckers don't shut up right now, I will shank you all to death one by one."_

Canada wasn't surprised it worked.

* * *

_**Welcome to Belarus this is how we do things here.**_


	4. Where Two Wrongs Do Not Make a Right

**This took a little longer than expected, sorry.**

**Finally! A non-filler chapter!**

**A little foreshadowing and a slight amount of EUBela OTP i mean wat.**

**I am kidding, I swear.**

**EUBela would never work.**

**Note:**

**About Mezzogiorno**

**It literally means "midday" or "noon", but it is one of the names used to refer to Southern Italy-**

**That's also why Spain called him Mediodía, because that means midday in Spanish.**

**Hopefully that cleared it up.**

* * *

"It was just an idea." Stated America, crossing his hands over his chest in a similar fashion to a 'deprived' 2 year old.

"Just an idea?!" Accused the Englishman.

He was almost fuming, his cheeks as red as the scarlet cushion's lining the normally hard, wood chairs of the meeting room.

The American nodded, looking rather sheepish all of a sudden.

"No wonder it was terrible. You haven't thought it through at all. What on earth possessed you to believe that you could fix global warming with a 'super cannon'?! The globoman idea looked genius co-"

"Shut up, Anhlija. You're making my head hurt." Bielaruś complained, her language becoming more... flowery as the Briton continued to rant.

Deutschland took deep breaths, restraining himself from killing them all one by one as the slavic female had threatened to do earlier.

He was almost completely calm once more, when Mezzogiorno threw himself under the table, yelling about violent French men.

_That was enough._

The German stood up sharply, his chair crashing to the floor as he did so.

"Must we go through your nonsense and disrespect for order every meeting?!" He yelled, the ruckus reduced to a few light murmurs of sorry.

"Now. We've visited the problem of global warming _every _week for the past 100 years. Has anyone got any valid points to make?" He carried on, his voice stern as ever.

Lietuva raised his hand shakily, trying not to look in the direction of the Russian man as he did so.

"Yes, Litauen?" The German shouted, causing the brunette to flinch.

"I think you should allow a referendum on Baltarusija joining the EU. Otherwise, she might integrate with Rusija." A worried look flickered across the Lithuanians face as he spoke, his gaze focused on nothing in particular.

"What are you trying to say, Litva? That I can't make my own choices?" Bielaruś snapped, her eyes narrowed.

"Ne, I'm just concerned."

"I agree with Litva." added the Russian hastily, the idea of becoming one with Bielaruś making him sweat nervously.

"Nothing like that is going to 'appen while Lukashenko is in power. 'e's too ruthless. Who know what will 'appen to us!?" France piped up, taking his role as one of the founding EU countries more serious than desired, as usual.

The other members of the European union nodded, causing Lietuva to slowly slide under the table to hide his embarrassment.

"Speaking of EU countries, has anyone seen Italien recently?" Enquired Deutschland, trying not to let his fear show.

Several versions of no were mumbled, many countries began to look around the room frantically in search of the considerably happier Italian.

"What about you, Süditalien?"

"Like hell if I know where that damn polentone is."

"Mediodía, be nicer to your hermano, sí?" Spain butted in, patting the older Italian on the shoulder.

"Vaffanculo, Spagna." He muttered, joining Lietuva under the table once more.


End file.
